Perpendicular
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ RusEng Oneshots ]] "You're too square." "I'm sorry?" Ivan hardly looked up from the stack of portfolios on his desk. "You're too square to model." Arthur looked down at himself. He looked back up at Ivan. "I'm sorry, but you're rejecting me because I have the body type you specifically requested? I printed out the job description, I can show you—"
1. Perpendicular: Part 1

"You're too square."

Arthur wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"I'm sorry?"

Ivan hardly looked up from the stack of portfolios on his desk. "You're too square to model."

Arthur looked down at himself. He looked back up at Ivan. "I'm sorry, but you're rejecting me because I have the body type you specifically requested? I printed out the job description, I can show you—"

Ivan smiled, setting down the portfolio he was flipping through. "I am sorry, Mr. Krinkland—"

"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

Ivan's smile widened. "Mr. Kirkland, then. Unfortunately, you are not what I am looking for to model in the fall show. You have the required dimensions, but you're just…"

"Square." Arthur grabbed his clothes and pulled them on, gritting his teeth. "Next time, maybe you should change your call description. Sorry to have wasted your time." He nodded, once, trying to maintain the illusion that he hadn't just insulted Ivan Braginski, but whatever damage was done was done.

It wasn't easy being a model. Arthur had some breakthroughs early in his career, but lately it had mainly been rejections. A new male model—Alfred F. Jones, from America, the twat—had swept into town and swept all of the contracts away with him.

London seemed more dower whenever Arthur got rejected. It had rained overnight, but the sun was shining. Humidity dragged at Arthur's clothes and skin, and he had to take off his jacket and frown at the summer sky, pray for some cool rain.

Arthur's mood didn't improve much over the next month. His portfolio had been done-over by an expert, trying to give Arthur the appearance of washboard abs and a chiseled jawline. But Arthur never really saw the point of persistently working out when there were people with amazing bodies already.

Plus, Arthur had a tendency to snack on tea cakes.

So, Arthur worked out and snacked on cakes, and nothing really seemed to change. Model calls, auditions, rejections, summer weather, tea cakes, weight training.

And then, Arthur was back in front of Ivan.

Ivan sat behind his desk, smile mild. Despite being a fashion designer, he wore a simple suit and scarf. An out of season scarf, Arthur noted grumpily as he entered the modeling room. He stripped to his boxers, watching Ivan looking over his portfolio.

Arthur disliked white interview rooms. They washed him out, so he had to overcompensate with his walk and interview skills. Arthur wasn't really an interview person, but he threw on a smile and hoped Ivan had forgotten their previous meeting.

"Kirkland!" Ivan greeted when Arthur stood in front of the desk. "You're still looking square!"

Arthur fought to keep his eyes from rolling. "Mr. Braginski. Your body specifications were similar as to your last call. Hopefully, our interactions can be more…" Ivan tilted his head, and Arthur thought he had a very oval face. "Civil."

Ivan's head ducked when he smiled. "You may show me your walk."

"Thank you."

Arthur turned and shook out his shoulders. Then, he walked, trying to do his best to show a variety in strides. He hoped that the room wasn't wreaking havoc with his complexion. How many models had Ivan seen today? Perhaps—

"You're still very square."

Arthur turned mid strut, eyebrows knitted together. "Oh, what does that even _mean_? You asked for less chiseled, I provide, and yet you're just looking at me like I showed up for a position that required me to be a hundred-ninety bloody centimeters."

"How tall _are_ you?"

Arthur waved his hand. "You read my portfolio."

Ivan's head ducked again as he grinned. "You know, that Jones character came around to audition. He is very…"

"Long? Oval? Circular as opposed to rectangular?"

"Annoying."

Arthur nodded, finally agreeing with something this chap had to say. He wondered if he could put his clothes on, if there was going to be an interview, or if Ivan was talking with him to stall from having to look at another twenty half-naked men. Arthur wouldn't have minded the job himself.

Arthur felt Ivan's eyes looking him over. It wasn't a particularly new feeling, and Arthur gazed evenly back until Ivan had finished assessing him. The designer nodded to himself.

"I'll have to add some corners to some of my clothes, but you can show up to a fitting next week. My secretary will email you." Ivan flipped through Arthur's portfolio. "You had many more contracts a few years ago."

Arthur grunted, walking over to his pile of clothes and unfolding them. "Yes, Antonio—er, Carriedo and I were in high demand. It was mainly accepting contracts from brands trying to snub the other one. Contracts were offered at double the other brand's…" Arthur buttoned his shirt, wishing he hadn't chosen a dark green.

"And now?"

Arthur snorted. "I'm too square."

"You are very upset over that comment." Ivan adjusted his scarf. "I didn't mean anything by it. It was just a comment on your…"

Arthur paused in the middle of knotting his tie. "My what?" There was a hesitation, and Arthur looked up to Ivan looking very torn. The expression changed to a smile. "My what?" He repeated, a little more defensively.

"You seem tense. Like… Well, like you could use a drink."

"Are you offering? No, never mind, are you buying?"


	2. Perpendicular: Part 2

"Ivan!"

Ivan looked up, caught sight of Arthur, and turned quickly on his heel. Arthur fumed, quickening his stride to try and catch up to Ivan. The designer started into a jog, retreating back into his building.

"Toris!" Ivan said brightly as he hurried by, "Please stop the angry Englishman from yelling at me! Thank you." He hurried by, and Arthur wanted to scream.

Toris stood, but he didn't step from around his desk. Chained there like a nervous canary, he held one hand up, watching helplessly as Arthur slowed to shoot him a glare. Toris opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, and Arthur moved on.

Ivan poked his head around the corner. "Toris, you're doing a very poor job of stopping him!"

"Ivan Braginski—"

Ivan smiled, head ducking; Arthur's anger dampened slightly as the gesture, but he kept the scowl on his face. The other man waved his hand, backing away from the model, looking over his shoulder like someone might save him. Or come across the scene.

"Why have I been fu…" Arthur looked around himself, then looked back at Ivan. "Who are you even bloody looking for? No, Ivan, why have I been _fucking blacklisted_ ," his voice dropped into a hiss, "by everyone in London?"

Nearby, someone laughed far too loud for the enclosed space. It irritated Arthur, who was _already_ irritated, and Ivan was still smiling, though his hands were raised. Arthur pointed a finger.

"Did you tell people we slept together?" He asked the question too loudly, and Arthur's head whipped around again, but the only other person nearby was Toris. And Toris never heard anything of importance, at least according to Ivan.

Suddenly, Ivan was looking very serious. "No, I did not. And really, who is not sleeping with the designers?" He tried to get Arthur to laugh along, but quickly gave up. "I did not. And that wouldn't affect anything, if I did."

"Then why was it," Arthur said, "that when I walked into the Vargas' studio, they gave me a look like I was the Black Death?"

Ivan made a face. "You model with the Vargases?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I _do_ model with them! And that's none of your business, and I don't appreciate whatever you did to poison my name in the city," Arthur paused. "Hold on a tick—"

That laugh was getting closer, and it was unsettlingly familiar. For whatever reason, it reminded him of American movies, all too fake and loud, making sure whoever heard it knew the laugher was _happy_.

Ivan grimaced. "I need a new secretary."

Alfred F. Jones, darling of the international modeling community, rounded the corner. An Asian man was at his side, holding some sort of smartphone. Alfred's eyes flicked between Ivan and Arthur, and his smile widened.

"Arthur! Dude, where you been? Man, it's been ages. Ages, right, Kiku? Fuckin' ages." He strode forward and thrust out his hand, which Arthur almost managed to shake without frowning. "How you been?"

"Fantastic, thanks for asking, you?" Arthur hoped his years of smiling for the camera had paid off.

Then again, models didn't really smile. They just sort of stared moodily at the camera. Not Alfred, though. Arthur looked at Ivan, who was much too busy looking anywhere other than back at him. No, not the golden boy.

"Groovy," Alfred replied, releasing his hand. "Just came over here to talk about…"

Kiku flashed his phone at Arthur in explanation. "Logistics. Kiku Honda, agent. You are Arthur Kirkland; an honor to meet you." He inclined his head slightly.

Arthur opened his mouth to respond, but Alfred cut in.

"So, yeah, Ivan and I, just arguing over my contract." Alfred laughed, and he didn't notice or care that no one joined in. "But Artie, what are you doing here? I didn't hear you were signed with anyone, but Kiku doesn't really tell me that stuff. No idea why."

Arthur felt the smile cutting edges in his cheeks. "Just leaving."

At least the weather was better. Arthur tugged his jacket closer around him as he walked outside, barely giving Toris a goodbye. Leaves whipped around him, and he stepped around puddles that threatened to flood his shoes. He should really work out.

Instead, he found his feet leading him through the streets, and he ended up outside the hotel. Arthur had disliked the building the first time Ivan had brought him there, but it wasn't so bad when all Arthur wanted to do was avoid the treadmill.

He nodded at the wait staff, taking the rickety elevator to Ivan's room, jiggling the handle just right to let himself in without the key.

Arthur liked Ivan's room. He liked the clothes that were neatly folded, the buckets of thread and ribbon, the yardsticks. He even liked it when the clothes were ripped on the ground, and the room was dusted with white powder.

Arthur meant to do something productive, maybe check his email, but he ended up smoking all the cigarettes he had on him. He sat with his back against the wall, watching the door, chain-smoking.

Finally, Ivan opened the door.

"Why are you sitting in the dark, silly, little, square man?" Ivan asked, smiling fondly at the burning cigarette tip. He shut the door. "For making over six figures a year, you are very insecure when your employer employs people."

Arthur scoffed. "If I was making over six figures, you'd never see me again."

Ivan strolled over, standing over Arthur and looking down at him. "Now, that is not true, is it?" He bent slightly, breathing in some of the lingering smoke. "Those smell good."

Arthur looked at the box in hand. "They cost seven pounds."

They stayed like that for a while, Arthur brooding and Ivan watching the smoke curl in the fading sunlight. Even a cigarette, Arthur remembered, lighting a new one. Maybe that's why Ivan requested his company so often; to keep his mind off of other sins.

"Did you blacklist me?" Arthur looked up, only catching half of Ivan's expression from the way the shadows played. "Because that was a shit thing to do."

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck you."


	3. Shades of Green (W RusAme)

**Fight Club!AU.**

* * *

Arthur opened his eyes, observing the distant ceiling. It seemed too bright. He was on his back, and his face was throbbing. It took a second to realize his ears were ringing before the sound snapped back. The sounds of cheers and grunts.

Then the smell—sweat, cigarette smoke.

The ceiling came into focus. It was leaky pipes and water stains, cheap lights that flickered. Then a head blocked out the light.

Alfred grinned, looking entirely too smug for the situation at hand. He reached a hand down, which Arthur ignored and hauled himself up. There were a few slaps on the back, and Arthur wanted to crawl upstairs and take a cold shower.

"Not doin' so hot tonight, eh?"

Arthur had met Alfred on a train headed toward nowhere; he had been wearing an old leather jacket and grinned at Arthur like he knew something. Alfred had pushed a case of expensive soap on him before disappearing into the crowd. Arthur had went home and looked at the soap, perched on his orderly countertop, and wondered who the fuck he had just talked to.

Arthur worked for a company. It was a company that made other people's lives miserable with letters and bills and hidden fees. Arthur had trudged to work and then back to his apartment, relishing in the neat and orderly furniture from a catalog.

But the soap, stacked neatly in the briefcase, annoyed him more than it should have.

Arthur pushed through the bodies, grimacing at the smell. The newer members were at the back, still pudgy, still with long hair, bruised and beaten, holding bruised ribs. They stepped aside, allowing Arthur to lean against a support beam.

In the center of the circle, Antonio paced. Arthur had his ass handed to him by that fucker every fight they had. Antonio would pace back and forth, then dart forward. Arthur was faster, but when that fist collided with his stomach, Arthur's knees nearly gave out.

Another contestant—an angry Italian—stepped forward, ripping off his shirt.

Alfred neared, leering grin still on his face. Arthur ignored him, focusing on the fight.

"You know, if you weren't so intimidated by him, you probably wouldn't get fucking wailed."

Arthur gritted his teeth. "I'm not _intimidated_ by him."

Alfred shrugged, letting out a cheer as the Italian landed a solid punch.

"You're depressed."

Arthur had looked up from his catalog table, in the middle of rearranging the catalog magazines. Alfred stood there, apartment door wide open behind him, leather jacket dry despite the rain pouring outside. Arthur knocked the magazines off the table by accident.

"Get the fuck out of my apartment!"

But the statement had eaten away at Arthur. It nipped at his heels when he walked to the bus, hung over his head when he sat at his desk during work, repeated itself in radio static. Arthur looked around his pristine apartment. Looked around his cubicle, at the list of names he needed to charge with hidden fees. He looked at his apartment building, at the payphone next to him.

And then his apartment had blown up.

Antonio threw a well-timed punch and the Italian crumpled. Arthur felt his cheeks grow warm as Antonio laughed, helping the Italian up. Alfred was still grinning, and the heat of the basement was over-whelming.

Arthur strode forward, back into the ring. Antonio gave him an amused look—a look tinged with something like pity. He cracked his knuckles and Arthur lunged, slamming into Antonio and throwing him off-balance.

The man barked out a surprised laugh, but Arthur was still moving. He stepped forward, slamming his knee into Antonio's thigh. The other man buckled and Arthur swung a fist.

However, Antonio was bigger. He shoved Arthur away, giving himself a few moments to recover. For a moment, Arthur thought he had misjudged the whole thing, but then Antonio darted forward and Arthur met him in the middle and lost himself.

"Arthur!"

Intimidated. _Intimidated_.

" _Arthur_!" Alfred's voice cut through the fog in his head like a spotlight.

Arthur blinked and looked down. Looked at his bloody knuckles and then at Antonio's face again. The adrenaline died down and all Arthur wanted to do was take a shower again.

The house was not a catalog house. It was hardly a house, more like four stories held together with twine and stacks of water damaged books. It leaked, it had rats, it smelled strongly of animal fat and homemade soap.

It had thin walls.

When Ivan had first arrived, Arthur had regarded him vague suspicion. He and Alfred were either arguing with one another, sabotaging one another, or fucking. Loudly. And then Alfred would come down in the mornings and make coffee.

Alfred hummed, pouring instant coffee into the coffeemaker. Arthur's eyes were on the scratches and bites adoring Alfred's body. They looked painful, and Arthur was cross he had been kept up for those claw marks.

It took Arthur a moment to realize Alfred was looking at him. He took a sip of his coffee.

"Don't talk about me."

Arthur pulled a face. "What?"

"To Ivan. Don't mention me." Alfred grinned. "You jealous I got laid?"

Arthur's eyes slid off of Alfred. "No."

As Ivan strolled out of the house, Alfred's words replayed in his head.


	4. Weak Men

**Anonymous said :** Maybe some RusEng? 3 Get better soon!

 **WWII time-era.**

* * *

It was fucking freezing. As soon as England stepped off the plane—not even. He had been freezing since he stepped _on_ the plane. The plane brought freezing cold air from Russia to London, and England had stewed in that air.

"Supplies," England muttered, gesturing over his shoulder at the trucks. "Just what we deemed necessary for—"

"People who need gloves have weak souls."

England nodded, rubbed his hands together. Then, he processed what he just heard. "Excuse me?"

Russia smiled. "People," he said, louder, "who need gloves have weak souls."

They were standing on a landing strip. Well, England supposed it was a landing strip—his plane had certainly landed there—but it was more like an empty, dirt field. The wind cut through England like a knife through warm butter.

Except England was a fucking freezing stick of butter.

England scowled. "Seriously? It's bloody freezing. Don't tell me—"

"It's okay," Russia said, holding two thumbs up. "I know you are a weak little man. However, that is why you're allied with me."

England scoffed. "Alright—I'm hoping this whole meeting isn't going to be passive aggressive."

"And I am hope you brought me some alcohol in those crates." Russia pointed. "Those ones."

England rubbed his hands together again. "Shall we get this meeting on with? I'd like to spend the least amount of time here as humanly possible. Where is the building?"

Russia smiled. "Building?"

England nodded. "Right, yes, headquarters or however you call it."

Russia slowly nodded along with England. "We don't have a headquarters."

England gaped. "Excuse me?"

"I said," Russia started, louder, "we don't—"

"Yes! I bloody well heard what you said! Where are we going to meet, then?" England looked around, teeth chattering. "There's absolutely nothing around here. Where are you going to distribute the supplies?"

Russia shrugged. "Around. And we are meeting!" Russia threw his hands in the air. "We are having a meeting right now!"

"I will get back on that plane, Russia."

"It's the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to you, England."

England crossed his arms, hands in his armpits. He glared around the empty field, at his men sharing fags, at the distance between his men and the Soviets, also smoking.

Finally, England dragged his eyes back to Russia. "Do you have _anywhere_ out of the wind? I'd accept a hole in the ground at this point."

Russia pointed. "There's a tent."

"Fantastic."

Russia trotted across the field. A few feet away from the plane, England sank into the snow up to his calf. Russia, however, walked on ahead, obvious to England falling farther and farther behind.

"Fucking—" England was panting, more than a few yards away from Russia. "Could you slow down?"

"No!"

By the time England had made it to the tent, Russia was already settled, feet on the table, hands crossed over his stomach.

"Thanking you for joining me."

"Bugger off," England wheezed. His feet were soaking wet, his legs aching. "Oh, it's a whole degree warmer in this blasted tent." He collapsed into the free chair. As his weight settled, he could feel water leak out of his socks.

Russia looked around, absently playing with his fingers. "Cozy, yes?"

"Freezing, and now my feet are wet." England rubbed his hands together. "So—"

"I want Poland."

England blinked. "I'm sor—I mean, you want Poland? What do you mean by that? You can't just _have_ Poland. That's what started this whole war!"

Russia shook a finger. "No, that is why _you_ started this war. I just want more land."

"I'm sorry, Russia, but I can't just _give_ you Poland." England rolled his eyes. "Is that why you dragged me all the way out here? To ask for that ridiculous demand?"

"I like your eyebrows, also."

"What?"

"I also called you out here because I like your eyebrows. Manly eyebrows, unlike your weak soul. But also, yes, I want Poland."

England massaged the bridge of his nose. "You realize Poland may have something to say about that, right?"

"Ah, yes, his government is in London, yes?"

"Don't remind me."

Russia smiled. He took his feet of the table, leaned forward, tilted his head down. "I am not asking for much. I have good mens, good people, who want to fight those who attacked us. I offer all of my peoples."

England opened his mouth, but Russia was already waving his hand.

"Sorry, I was not being polite. I did not offer you a drink." He stood and walked around the tent, digging through the various bags on the ground until he found two cups and a bottle of something unlabeled.

"Russia, this is official—"

"It is Russian custom! Here." Russia poured England a drink, filled to the very top of the glass. "Drink. I have heard too much of official lately."

 **…**

"God, you should _hear_ Poland." England shook his head. "He's half-ready to parachute himself in there! Fight them himself! He's quiet and then he screams and throws things and glares at me. It's awful. He's terrifying."

Russia hummed. "And you?"

England took another sip and winced, clicking his tongue from the taste. "What about me?"

"How are you doing? Poland is a feral cat. And you?"

England reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. At least it was cold without ice cubes. And it warmed him up. He could feel his fingers and the heat in his cheeks.

" _Me_ me?"

"What?"

England shook his head. "Nothing. People are scared. But determined." He took a sip. Swirled the alcohol in the glass. "You can give us that. Determined."

Russia nodded. "I am good."

England looked up and blinked. "Oh, oh fuck, sorry. How are you?"

Russia shrugged. "I've been to war. My people are used to war. And the cold. Life continues in the USSR."

England breathed out, shook his head. "Is all you want land?"

Russia shrugged. "It would be nice. Resources. Ports that don't freeze over."

"And Germany doesn't bother you?"

"Does now. That's all that matters now, yes? At least for you." Russia drank from the bottle. "Unless you are referring to the fascism."

"I am."

Russia shrugged. "My people and I know what is good. If anyone in Germany has a problem with fascism, they can come to the union." He raised the bottle and said something in Russian. "More welcomes to them."

England shook his head. "He's powerful. I'll give him that."

Russia shrugged. "You are not?"

"I'm an island." England drank. "We have a nice navy."

"Which is easy when you have an island, yes?"

England laughed. "Exactly. You mind terribly if I smoke?"

Russia wave a hand dismissively. England lit and breathed smoke.

"God, feels like we just had a war, doesn't it?" England sighed. "I used to love war."

Russia shook his head. "No, you used to like conquest. I am someone who had to fight for everything they have, and I do not like war. It is necessary. I need it for my people." Russia looked at him through half-lidded eyes. "I used to fight against people like you."

England shrugged. "And now you need Poland."

Russia smiled. "He's going to be a mess after this all."

"He has sovereignty, Russia."

"And he will under the Soviet Union, as well. Union, England. We're a family."

England laughed. "Sure."

Russia sighed. "I'm offering my services in this war, England. I do not ask for much."

"You're asking for another nation to add to your collection."

"I am asking for another nation's land." Russia tilted his head back and forth. "For all I care, you can keep Poland in London. My resources will be scarce after the war."

England finished his drink. "I thought we were not talking about official business."

"You are defecting."

"You mean 'deflecting.'"

"I mean I'm drunk." Russia chuckled.

England looked at his drink. Then back up at Russia. "Hey, fuck you about the whole gloves issue."

"Fuck you and your weak soul."


	5. Negative Correlation

**Anonymous said :** Maybe RusEng with some jealous FrUS? 3 (Your writing is amazing. I enjoy reading it whenever I can!)

* * *

 _When you hold me close,_

 **...**

"You know," Russia said, stealing England's cigarette and taking a drag, "you aren't very attractive."

England recoiled. "Excuse me?"

Russia laughed, sitting up in bed, getting into it. "Well, yes. You are boney and pale, and your eyebrows are not, ah, conventionally attractive."

England scowled, trying to grab his cigarette back. "Hey, you're an asshole, did you know that? Fuck you."

"You already did," Russia said brightly, returning the cancer stick. "But, anyway, to my point."

"Oh, I'm glad that there's a point to your insult."

Russia grinned. "Anyways, you realize France and dumbo have been glaring at me and you during meetings, yes? They are very, ah…" He curled his fingers through the air. "Jealous. Isn't that funny?"

England glared out the motel's window. "And _why_ exactly did you call me ugly?"

"Oh, well, you aren't very attractive. Funny they would be jealous, no?" Russia settled back into the pillows, point being made.

"You know, if you don't find me attractive, you don't have to fuck me." England felt goosebumps run up his arms. "At least have the decency to not fucking insult me to my face."

Russia sighed good-naturedly, rolling his eyes. "Come now—"

"No, fuck this. I don't need this." England stood, stooping down and looking for his clothes under the bed.

Russia rolled on his stomach, arms hanging off the bed in front of England's face. England slapped them out of the way, pulling on his underwear. Russia scoffed, resting his face in his hand.

"England," Russia sing-songed.

"Fuck you. I don't know why I put up with this shit." The pants, now. "You're a dick."

"Hm." Russia raised an eyebrow. "You ever think it's because you like assholes? And you like feeling bad about yourself?"

England stared at him.

"You're blushing." Russia smiled. "You're quite the masochist. It's an endearing trait, and I don't mind feeding into it. You're cute mad, and you're cute when you feel bad about yourself."

England snapped his gaze downwards, tugging on his pants, shoes. Ash from his cigarette fell on his hand, and he hissed, standing.

"Until next time," Russia called as England slammed the door.

 **…**

"Yo, England."

England nearly slammed his head on the table. He shuffled the papers in front of him, taking a deep breath, but by the time he turned to respond, America was already taking a seat, opening his mouth and continuing.

"So, like, what's up with you and Russia?"

England blinked. "I'm sorry, I don't believe any of that—that information is your business."

America laughed, loud and plastic, teeth straight and white. He leaned forward, arm resting on his knee. "Nah, come on, you and I both know something's going on between you two. I'm not an idiot."

England's head shot back. "Again, I don't believe any of that is _any_ of your bloody business."

"Are you two fucking?" America asked, scratching the back of his head, jaw clenching and unclenching.

England stared at him. "You're an utter ass. I'm going to keep repeating myself until you understand me: none of your business, none of your business, none of—"

America pushed himself away from the table, walking away with hands on his hips, head bent slightly. Russia padded by, smiling at the superpower. America stopped, and the two exchanged words, heads bent close together.

Then, America kept walking.

Russia sat next to England, replacing America. "Good morning, England. You are looking very awake for our late night last night. I brought you a coffee, because I was assuming you would be very worn out."

England hesitated—but the caffeine headache decided for him. He took a sip, grimacing. "And what were you and America talking about?"

Russia gave a vague shrug. "Oh, he was being his usual self. Asking me about cock-enlargers. You could say thank you for the coffee."

"I hate coffee. It's just funny, saying you thought he was jealous…" England took another sip of coffee. "And then you talk to him. Don't stir the flames."

Russia examined his fingernails. "Why do you care?"

England blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said, why do you care? I can speak to America all I want."

"And when he pounds my face in?"

Russia made a face. "Oh, Alfred wouldn't do that."

England laughed. "Alright, sure, you believe in that little story in your head, right up until he throws a bitch fit and sanctions one of us because he—he, well, he's jealous." England massaged his eyes.

"And France?"

England looked up. "What about him?"

Russia shrugged.

"Nothing. What would France care?" England sighed. "I'm really not in the mood to talk. Talk about any of this. I just want to get through this meeting and fly home."

Russia smiled. "I know what would relax you."

England scoffed. "No quickies in the bathroom, thanks."

"I know for a fact you have not been opposed to it in the past." Russia reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask. "But I was talking about a quick shot in your coffee. To take the edge off, yes?"

Adrenaline shot through England's fingers. "No, thanks," he muttered, taking another stabilizing sip of coffee.

Russia wiggled the flask, tantalizingly close to England's fingers. "Come now—"

France's voice: "England."

England's head snapped to his left. France was leaning on the other side of the table, face neutral.

"A word," France said in his native tongue, "in private, if you will."

France led them outside the conference room, the hallways less crowded, and England felt the tension leave his shoulders. He hadn't realized how he had been sitting next to Russia.

"We haven't spoken in a while," France said. "How is everything?"

England barked out a laugh. "Things could be better. I hate meetings in Asia—the time zones…" England waved his hand.

"And Russia?"

The smile fell from England's face. "What about him?"

France's face and voice were still soft. "You've been under a lot of strain. What with the recent vote, the conservatives, Spain, _then_ Russia." He ran a hand through his hair, looked England up and down. "And it's not as though I haven't seen you at the cocktail hours."

England's lip pulled into a sneer. "Well, thanks for your concern."

France sighed, softly. "I am concerned. Terribly concerned, for your work, for you and your personal relations, for _you_ , Arthur. Don't fault me on that."

They stared at each other, long and tense. But…

England looked away. "Alright."

"Coffee, tonight?" France touched England's arm. "If only for a few minutes."

England nodded. "Alright," he sighed.

"I'll text you the address."

 **…**

England ended up in a bar, like he always did. He didn't speak Japanese, and the bartender gave him random drinks that were green and blue and pink.

He fumbled for his phone, fumbled for the buttons that were too small for his fingers, for the words that wouldn't come.

"Hey," he slurred.

"Ah, let me guess," Russia said brightly, "you are in a bar, very, very drunk."

England's face slid on the wood of the bar, pulled his cheek. "Be nice."

Silence on the other end.

"Ivan?"

"What?"

"Will ya' come find me? It's by the place. The hotel."

"I supposing I will."

The bartender cut him off—or England ran out of the spending cash in his pocket. He couldn't remember, head on the bar, what came first. His mouth was dry, his head was spinning, limbs light.

"Arthur?"

England dragged his gaze up. "You came."

Russia sighed. He grabbed England's arm and threw it over his shoulder, dragging him away from the stool and out into the night.

"You thought I wouldn't come to find you? You're going to get mugged in this state." Russia readjusted England. "Can I ask what prompted this drinking?"

England laughed. "Not tellin' you, you'd just get fucking bloddy—bloody pussed."

Russia grunted. "I will not forgive you if you throw up on me. You will be on your own. I swear."

England laughed again. "You're a fuckin' cunt."

"I suppose so. You will be sleeping in my room."

"You're not so bad."

Russia glanced at him. "You are drunk."

"You're not so bad, even though you like fuckin' fucker better than me." Nausea rolled around England's stomach. "Sorry I called you."

"I expect a blowjob."

"I might throw up on your cock."

"Deal."

 **...**

 _pretend like you don't want to let me go._


End file.
